crowroad3 (crowroad3) wrote,

Fic: Far

Genre: gen, non-linear
Characters: Dean, Sam,Baby
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: S10, S11, 4 x3 In the Beginning; anticipation of/for 11x 4, timefuck.

Word Count: ~500
Summary: What’re you gonna do, unmarked.


Oh, this stretch again. Hydroplane. You gentled her, skittery not-mustang, heaved her to, just as you did your brother, so many times, shakeup of fuckups and lost shoes, treads, lost ways. Sammy looks up from under, says don’t call me that don’t fingers worry the presets cassette-mouth and engine-breath and fast-break on the horizon, pink; but that was roads ago and here she is, still, black as eyes; here you are.


She’s nearly fifty, is what you think.

Radials suck ruts by the lair-door. Spring again and friends have gone to Oz, or wherever they’ve gone now heaven’s gone, lost, poppies opiate-sweet on the sorry wind. World’s deathless. Zombified. Daylight-unsaved. Brother-breath and wind in the new grays. What’re you gonna do, unmarked.



This must be it. Axis mundi;highest caffeine-grades, white-line, exhaust, warm-tired on crazy bread;this is the place. Flares, sparkshowers. Roadsign says souls, pie; Sam laughs. Sam laughs.


First date. 1973. Houses holy on dial and timetravel fever, whiskey-chill in your wrists. Say hello to the spots you’ll  scratch, birth, where you shake, manifold, across times.

Your father hardly dares, lays on a shine, catches a hunt-glint, fingernails.

Kiss her hello and pin her; little bloom of  a stitched minute, greenish carnation, ribbon- something, all yours. Shine her on.

Get lucky.

Access road

Bobby, you say, gonna drive off a pier.

You hand your brother the keys, tell him.

All yours all yours; hand her over, first-born to second.

Seal, mouth-to-tailpipe, pray not to be saved.

Sammy when you drive I want you to well, drive.

While angels and demons dream, benched, in the back.

Sing, you tell your brother, sing.

Road’s meant to be rodeo’d, don’t you know.

You know.


Sam’s in the engine again, keeping his counsel, ink, demon-dreams, all his damn dark. You know. You talk to her midnights, that’s your secret. Tell her all you thought you knew.

Dean, is what  Sam says, was going to tell you.

You shared a circulatory is what it feels. A freaking vena cava you and she and she and he, all black-veined, humming; all true, one.


Manifold brother, manifold. Wrench. The roof you pushed out with your own spine. The tools you handed over cold ones. Two-lane. Dirt. Washboard. The vanishings you race through, blow ghosts to nothing; the mouth you mine for silver, salt; the things, these things you think about.


Where on the map. Where in the hell.

Here, Sam says, points. No more empty to drive into.

There isn’t one. There is. Your brother says your name. Pull off and park. Blink. Pinprick planets, wayside herb.
She settles, clicks cool. Your brother says your name in the dark; hands.

Two-person cradle, what rocks.
On AO3.
Tags: maybe a story

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